Gravida
by Suilven
Summary: In the chill hush of an autumn day, Morrigan's thoughts drift towards the impending arrival of her child nestled deep within.


**Gravida**

Morrigan ran a hand down the firmness of her belly and the little one inside of her bumped back. 'Twas the strangest sensation, these little movements that were not her own, emanating deep from within. She had thought at first that she would be repulsed by it, this foreign _thing_ that had taken up residence in _her_ body, but, instead, she found herself fascinated. If she slid her hand just so, there was almost always a tiny nudge in response. Sometimes, they were uncomfortable; a jab in the ribs or a painful dart down in her pelvis. But, the response it pulled from her was so primal, so instinctive as she stroked the babe through her own flesh and murmured unfamiliar words of comfort. "Hush now, little one. There is no need to fuss. Be still."

The hut she now occupied had been Mother's—one of many—and it felt very much like all the others. The same scent of drying herbs, the same silence of the long-forgotten forest. 'Twas a relief to be alone again, after the constant chatter of travelling for so long. Leliana's simpering. Alistair's incessant nattering. She shuddered as she gathered up more sticks for the fire.

But, she was not alone. The little one stretched and twisted and Morrigan rubbed her protruding belly reflexively. Silly thing.

It was harder to bend down now, and she huffed with the effort that something as simple as collecting firewood seemed to take. The sky's hue was a soft pearl of baby blue and her breath came as flutters of fog in the chill morning air. Dew hung on the leaves and grasses like icy tears that soaked into the hem of her long robe as she walked. The pile of branches near the hut grew gradually taller as she gathered and stacked. The babe would be here soon, before the snows came, and, so, she collected the things they would need. She already had plenty of food: strips of dried meat, apples, potatoes, bags of ground wheat and oats, even a slab of honeycomb wrapped protectively in a scrap of parchment. They would burrow down in their little hut and let the winter cover them up like a blanket.

Not just her. Her and the little one.

A fox ghosted by and paused, a wisp of orange like a fallen leaf. Morrigan gave her a friendly nod and the vixen dipped her snout in return before vanishing into the trees. The trees here were giants, long hidden from the men who would slay them for houses and boats, and they stood watch over this secret place. Her back was beginning to ache, so she rested a hand against the wrinkled bark of one of her guardians and stretched carefully from side to side before resuming her task.

The sun had drifted to its peak overhead when she was finally satisfied. She sat outside in the grass and watched the wind gust through the dry leaves, crackling and spinning in an elaborate dance. Her mug of tea cooled rapidly in the breeze, and she sipped it slowly as she ate her meager lunch. The little one had the hiccups and her belly jumped rhythmically with each one. Morrigan rested her cup against her stomach and studied the ripples in her tea with each twitch. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile.

Despite her magic, she still did not know if she carried a boy or a girl. 'Twould be a surprise, just for the two of them. At night, curled in her small chair by the fire, she thought about the baby's features, tracing a finger of thought over the profile of the round head, down the bridge of the nose to the button-like tip, over soft lips puckered in a pensive frown. Would it look like him? Her heart clenched painfully with the irrational hope. She poked at the embers with a stick, watching them spark and settle. No, what was between them was done.

The idea of laboring alone terrified her, but there was no one to trust. She had already prepared the salves and teas that would ease her pains and make the delivery easier and, though she was no healer, she had her own power to draw on as well. Everything was ready, nothing was left to chance. Except, of course, for all the things she could not control. What would she do if the child was too large or positioned badly? For all that she worried—her brow creased in a frown as she laid great sprigs of elfroot to dry over the wooden frame—there was nothing to be done but trust that it would be all right. She had to have faith. 'Twas an unfamiliar sensation, to have nothing but hope.

In the dark, as the fire in the hearth grew weary and slumbered, she tossed fitfully in her bed as she struggled to find a position that was even remotely comfortable. Of course, once she found one, she inevitably was forced to rise to use the pot _again_. 'Twas a maddening cycle. Yet, nestled back beneath the rough covers once more, the little one would jostle around and she would find herself caressing each bump and wondering if that was a knee or an elbow or a foot. She drifted off to sleep at last, soothed by those movements that were not her own…

"Hush now, little one. There is no need to fuss. Be still," she whispered into the stillness of the night.

A resounding kick in response.

Morrigan chuckled, letting out the deep breath she was holding and wrapping her arms around her belly, around the little one.

She would hope.

'Twould be enough.

* * *

><p><em>AN: This piece was inspired by a few things: A conversation with a friend, wistful memories of my own pregnancies, and Enaid Aderyn's marvelous story, 'Quietus'. Thanks for reading!_


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